Deus Imbrium

August 21, 2007

Last Thursday as the sun went down, had you been traveling in rural Comanche county, past the fields of cows and quiet ranch houses, miles away from any city lights, you might have seen a car stopped by the side of the road—its blinkers on and music issuing almost imperceptibly from its closed doors. Had you been a native West Texan, you might have wondered at the car’s California plates, noticeably out of place among the pump jacks and mesquite trees silhouetted in the darkening West Texas sky. “Tourists” you might have thought at first, but then you would have remembered that there is nothing to draw tourists to Rising Star, Texas, or, for that matter, to the nearby towns of Pioneer, Okra, or Chuckville. You might have thought “kin”, but then you would have had to rationalize the car’s present stopping place in the middle of nowhere. Ultimately, you would have been forced to conclude that the artifact from California had ended up where it was for a reason, and that, since it wasn’t your business to meddle in Californians’ affairs, you’d better just pass on by and be grateful that you were a Texan.

The car was ours, and the story of how it came to rest on a country road in the middle of rural West Texas is worth telling. It started with a sunset. Driving home from Brownwood, Texas, where we had helped my sister move in to her college dorm, we witnessed a dazzling display on the horizon—the sky awash in streaks of blue and gold as a thunderstorm faded with the dying light. We had to stop and take a picture. Mistake number one—violating the Texas Code of Living: Texans don’t stop and take pictures. The cosmic forces of Texas immediately made us pay for the mistake by locking our car doors and blowing them shut—our keys still inside. Then, without warning, the beautiful storm we had been watching in the distance changed course and began heading back towards us, thundering ominously and blackening the sky as it advanced.

As the rain began pounding the ground in front of us, our vision was clouded so that the only light we could see was the car’s turn signal blinking feebly orange. We had seen a ranch house in the distance before the storm hit, and we fled from the storm in the general direction of the ranch. Fortunately, we found the ranch house after a short sprint and the elderly couple inside graciously allowed us to use their phone, having first made sure that we were not rogue highwaymen come to wrestle their cattle. (I admit we did look rather harried—and I’ve always fancied myself a bandito.) A few phone calls later (including one “800 number” that was NOT a 24-hour towing hotline), I managed to locate an ‘ol boy with a truck who would help. Our conversation proceeded thusly: “When can you come?” I asked.


“Is it stormin’?”


“Yeah,” I said. “It’s comin’ down pretty hard” (I did my best ol’ boy Texas accent here.)


“Will I get wet?”


“Very likely.”


“Well, then, I’ll come whenever the storm finishes.”


“How long will that be?” I asked.


“Hard to say,” he said. It was clear that the cultural barrier had been breached at this point and I was not a welcome stranger. Imagining a long night in a lonely farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, I changed tactics.


“Is there anything I could do to persuade you to come more quickly?” I importuned.


“Depends” he said. “I don’t wanna get wet. What are you offerin’?”


So much for Texas hospitality. After a bartering session, we reached a gentleman’s agreement on a rip-off price and our noble rescuer promised to brave the storm and be there soon.
In the meantime, the kind woman who had taken us in had been talking nonstop to K— and was now scooping pecans into a bag for us to take on our way. This stranger, a veteran of many years on West Texas farms, had managed during our short intrusion to cover her entire family history from the Civil War to the present, with photographs for illustration. But her loquacity was comforting in a way, for the generous welcome and hospitality we received reminded us that there are still places where a stranger stranded by the side of the road will be taken care of—without thought of reparation or consideration of cost.

The ol’ boy towing man arrived about twenty minutes later, minutes after the rain had stopped completely. After taking all of two minutes to wedge open our car door and lift the lock with a tool, the tow-man went his way and we went ours. I began thinking about how silly we had been to make such a costly and time-consuming mistake. Then K— spoke. “That was amazing!” she said. “I wish that would happen more often.”

Whats Next

“Well, we must wait for the future to show,” said Mr Bankes, coming in from the terrace.(1)

We have arrived in Denton, Texas. We knew it when we saw our first old cowboy—waving to us with a kindly welcome and a friendly grin. The fact that it was one in the morning and in front of a grocery store seemed only slightly odd. We are living now in a town where the car at the stoplight is bumping Brad Paisley. The local donut shop is called “Donut,” and it coexists happily with “Yummy’s” and “Frilly’s”— Greek and Cajun eateries. We are living now in God’s country, where on Sunday we heard a local preacher enliven his sermon with the phrase, “I’d kill ‘im, and you would too.”

We are living now with a seven-toed cat named Kalamazoo. “Kally” and his companion were part of the gift set, along with a house and pool, generously offered by friends to help us transition into life here in Texas. The house astounds with its glass-happy architecture and vibrant colors. You would love it. The cats qualify as our only roommates right now and constitute, unless we widen our circle to include waitresses and 7-11 employees, the group of living organisms to which we speak. Cat friends are depressing.

But our outlook brightens. After all, we survived the caravan from California to Texas. If, in last year’s trip to Russia, we identified with spacemen visiting an alien world, then this year we were mahouts coaxing our van across the 1400 mile desert. We had estimated our driving time at about 22 hours. For most of the 30-hour journey, our boxy beast was the slowest thing on the road. The languorous pace allowed plenty of time to take in surroundings; unfortunately, the surroundings of New Mexico and Arizona comprise mostly truck stops and mile markers. The exception is “The Thing”—a marvel of Interstate 10—which we visited after years of mystery and speculation. In fact, “The Thing” somehow had the power to draw our moving van forward with the fuel tank on “E” for 23 miles—uphill and through the rain—so that we stopped eerily at the doorstep of the “The Thing’s” gas station. Yes, “The Thing” has that kind of power. No, I won’t say what “The Thing” is. No, it is not a papier-mâché hoax.

So we arrived, moved into our temporary house, and unloaded our van into storage last week. We have spent this week enjoying our beautiful temporary house and chasing down driver’s licenses, car registration, and any leads on houses for sale. We have eaten at the local Pei Wei three times. Tomorrow we will try “Donut.”

(1) Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse

Uncle and Aunt

Today we're happy to announce that we have new titles: "Uncle Matt" and "Aunt Kinzie". You should know that the Russian word for uncle is "dya-dya" and for aunt, "tyo-tya".

Oh, and also, Makinzie's sister Ashleigh and her husband Lance just had a baby boy--Caedmon Patrick Kelley. Born on March 7, 2007.

The Jury Show

March 1, 2007
(Matt)

I spent the entire day yesterday on a court-summoned field trip to learn about our criminal justice system. This was a new world of discourse for me, and I really became aware of the fact when I made it through the metal detectors at about 7:30 am, went up the stairs and down a long hallway, and happened to overhear a rough-looking man huddled in the corner saying into his cellphone, (imagine a deep, shadowy voice here) “Well, if the game won’t change, then the players will just have to change the rules . . .”. I have only the wildest thoughts about what such a phrase might mean within the context from which it was spoken. Anyway, it was clear that the “game” I would be playing throughout the day as a juror-in-waiting was going to be far different than the life I usually live as a normal citizen.

In the jury room, over 280 people were gathering as hopeful chosen’s for the days trials. I tried to read and look preoccupied so that no one would talk to me in the big jury room, but it didn’t work. The girl who sat down next to me noticed me reading and asked me if I was a student. The question turned out to be more of an introduction to her own autobiography, which began with the opening strategy of shock: “It’s no fun when you’re three years old and your mom has brain surgery and you try to jump on the bed to keep her from getting up and she throws you onto the floor and you hit your head.” What does one say to such a statement? I had to agree that the times this situation has happened to me, it has indeed been no fun. Sadly, my name was called as part of an 80-person jury selection panel, and I had to say goodbye to my new awkwardly self-revealing friend.

The jury selection process might be compared to the standard part of a game show where the host asks the contestants to tell a little bit about themselves, except that in the courtroom, the host throws out the contestants if he doesn’t like their answers. Well, and also, the questions from host to contestant deal with criminal background and presuppositions about guilt and innocence. Oh, and also the contestants do not WANT to be on the show (for the most part) and keep trying to find excuses to NOT play the game. Watching this process from the audience, I felt myself feeling both a perverse curiosity about the intimate details of these strangers’ lives and a profound sense of entertainment as judge, lawyers, and reluctant jurors put on a sensational show.

The real highlights of the day were the “show-stoppers”. These are the jurors-to-be who, for whatever reason, feel that the courtroom setting is their time to shine. Most lines of questioning take about five or six minutes; the “show-stoppers” get about thirty. I think that everyone in the audience had a favorite “show-stopper”, but mine was “Maria”, the woman with “two Master’s degrees, your honor”, who initially asked to be excused because (and this is her logic faithfully represented) she lived in the same town where the crime took place and jogged every morning around the track in her neighborhood with two black women. After about ten minutes of clarifying questions, neither the judge nor anyone else in the courtroom was any closer to figuring out what in the world this lady was saying. But it got better.

Although Maria (not her real name, for reasons you’ll soon see) grudgingly acquiesced to the judge’s order for her to take a place in the jury box, she was not through developing her argument. When the judge asked if anyone had a predisposition morally against the defendant, Maria said, “I think I do.” During the next twenty minutes, Maria revealed the following facts in support of her argument: 1) She was college counselor. 2) She jogged around the track in her neighborhood with two black women (yes, I know, but she said it again). 3) She married “an Asian”. 4) All the male students at her college seemed to love her. 5) She had a “gift” for being objective. 6) She thought that the defendant had a “system” in place that would find out where she jogs in her neighborhood if she was on the jury. 7) She prayed every night to be safe because she was a Christian.

Fortunately, the judge was able to hone in on Maria’s primary concern, and asked: “Excuse, me, Mrs. ____, but are you afraid that someone in this courtroom will retaliate against you if you are on the jury?” Yes, Maria, admitted, although she reiterated her gift at being “objective.” “What kind of TV shows have you being watching, Mrs. ______?” the judge wanted to know. So, it turns out that Maria believed (objectively) that because the defendant had looked at her as she took her place in the jury box, he was memorizing her name and face and preparing to send out hitmen from his “system” to “take care of her” while she slept—or perhaps jogged with her two black friends. Amazingly, Maria made it onto the final jury and was only dismissed at the last minute by a peremptory charge from the prosecuting attorney.

As for me, my own time in the spotlight was much less dramatic. I watched the pool of 62 “leftover” jurors dwindle as more people found excuses for not wanting to serve. Time was running out in the day when my name was finally called, and I moved from alternate seat to the real jury box with only six jurors left in the pool. The defense counsel had said that he was happy with the jury as it was, but then the prosecutor stepped in and dismissed me with one of his “peremptories”. I was slightly relieved, because I don’t know what would have happened if I had to miss the last two weeks of teaching my writing class. When I told this to my class this morning, they returned a unanimous decision that they would have done fine with a two-week break.

So what did I learn in the process of jury duty? One, take an iPod to the jury room to avoid any kind of interpersonal interaction. Two, use the words “financial hardship” as a magic ticket off of any jury panel—they seem to work without question. And three, since you’re given the chance to stand up in front of an educated audience including judges, sheriffs, lawyers, and various other upstanding citizens in society, take time to make it worth everyone’s while. Razzle-dazzle ‘em. Not everyone can make it to Hollywood or Broadway, but most of us will get at least one chance every twelve months or so to turn the criminal justice system into a venue for the most dazzling of human spectacles.

Coping with Good News

(Matt)

We apologize for the almost two-month gap between this post and our last, but the momentous weight of the events in the interim have given us a need to "set a spell" and gather our thoughts.

The most surprising news is that Matt has been offered and has accepted a tenure-track professorship at a large research university in Texas. We had been praying that our choice would be made clear, and it has become unquestionably clear that this is the "right" next move. We just signed a six-month lease on an apartment here in CA, so it looks as though our transition from California to Texas will begin in early August of 2007. The prospect of starting a new career and having a more stable (read: actually paying) basis for researching and teaching is really exciting, and we are looking forward to finding our place within a new community. The job itself is an answer to prayer; teaching at a big school presents both a blessing and a challenge. I have to admit personally that I am anxious about the process of establishing tenure and getting a book-length work ready for publication, but at the same time I have seen my greatest fears turned into moments of faith-building and trust in the last few years.

What surprises us most about the "good news" is how we have acclimated to the reality of having the next big phase of our life settled, to a certain extent. Our discussions of late have revolved around our sensations of scatteredness and even confusion. We’re excited about the future and at the same time we feel like we’re stumbling around a bit in the present.

This state of nebulousness is not really a bad thing overall. In fact, I know that we will emerge with a greater clarity of vision. In the meantime, at least our blog is back up :)

Back home

We made it back home to so cal last night and are staying with some sweet friends until we can get into a place.

These past few weeks have been crazy going around from place to place trying to squeeze as much as we could out of our time while we were in Texas. Family—I know some of y’all we only got to be with for a few hours, but, sitting next to Francie and feeling the radiance of her spirit on a Sunday night, getting to feel the life growing in Ashleigh’s tummy, traveling with Mema, talks with the cousins—these things and many more brought a warmth to my spirit; thank you for blessing us with your lives.

Because we did so much hopping around through Texas and Philadelphia (praise Him for the blessing of a school-site interview!) I know for at least myself I didn’t get to process everything that happened as we transitioned to life back here. We were blessed so much through mutual sharing, love, encouragement, etc. with those we love back in Russia—because of this, I felt this empty space as we returned to life back in the states; partly because I’m just plain sad about the separation and partly because I hadn’t quite thought through how exactly those relationships would continue when we returned.

Along with those feelings, as we drove back to California I felt a little nervous (along with excitement) about getting back into life and lives—wasn’t quite sure about what things would look like, especially since we’re unsure where God will take us after these next six months in Riverside.

This morning I spent some time driving around and at a place of peace for me here in Riverside and the Spirit blessed me with my own renewed sense of peace that I hadn’t felt since we were back in Moscow. Thank you, Father. I feel healed.

-Makinzie

Granddad

Matt’s granddad passed away this past Sunday. I know my relationship was different with him than that of his kids or grandkids because I’ve only known him for the past 8 or so years. I want to say thank you, though, to Jack. Thank you for being willing to share and laugh with me (things I did with my own Papa before he died 9 years ago). I am thankful that we were blessed to be with Granddad for a few hours over the holidays and thankful for God’s perfect timing through this whole thing and thankful that for all of our grandparents that have guided and been a voice in our lives as we try to live lives of love that we’ve seen through them.

-Makinzie

Scattered leaves

"All mankind is of one Author, and is of one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again, for that library where every book shall lie open to one another."
--John Donne

Back

Just letting y'all know we made it back safe and sound. We're in Texas for the next week, then off to Philly for Matt's job stuff, back to Texas for another week and should be in so cal again around the 10th of January. Our old cell phone is back on if y'all need/want to reach us. Thank you for your prayers, and we'll post more once we've had a chance to process some things.

Love y'all-
Makinzie

Goodbye, Moscow

We're leaving in about 7 hours for the airport to head back. Thanks for supporting us on our journey. We love you all.

-Matt and Makinzie

Sadness

I sit here, three days left to go out here, trying to process the incredible sadness I’ve been feeling in my soul over these last few days. This past weekend was filled with last conversations, times of encouragement and being encouraged, laughter, tears. As we were all praying on Friday night, I acknowledged that part of my heart will remain here—with these beautiful people that have allowed us to be a part of their lives. This I say to you, dear friends. . .

“I still remember all the wonder,
The glorious thrill of meeting you,
The momentary spell of splendor,
Spirit of beauty pure and true.

When sadness came upon me, endless,
In vain society’s direst days,
I heard your voice, your accents tender,
And dreamt of heaven in your face.

Now once again my heart is racing,
Proclaiming the renewal of
My former tears, my inspiration,
My sense of God, and life, and love.”

-Alexander Pushkin

I love you all.
-Makinzie

Turgenev

"Can their prayers and their tears be fruitless? Can love, sacred, devoted love, not be all-powerful? Oh, no! No matter how passionate, sinning, rebellious is the heart hidden in the grave, the flowers growing on it look at us serenely with their innocent faces; they speak to us not only of that eternal peace, of that great peace of 'impassive' nature; they speak to us also of eternal reconciliation and of life everlasting. . ."

Fathers and Sons, Ivan Turgenev

Father, thank you for peace, reconciliation, and life.

-Makinzie

Class Today

Today in my second to last Russian lesson, we learned about how to use comparative words (bigger, newer, best, etc.). As I was trying to get these words into my brain, it got me thinking. . .do we really need these words? “I have the fastest car, newest home, better work. . .” Hmm. . .

-Makinzie

"Coffee, please"

A quick anecdote from today's "Russian Excursion". Enjoy this one while you're sipping your Starbucks (Joe) and reading our blog before you start your day.

I asked my my Russian teacher, Nelly Alexandrovna Roslyakova: "Do Russians prefer tea or coffee?" She answered "tea" and then went on to explain that tea is traditional in Russia while coffee is imbibed usually only in the cities; it's a "foreign" drink. She continued to explain that Peter I introduced coffee and had a special plan for guaranteeing its popularity in Russia. How? He gave his nobles a choice: "Pi'ye ili v tyiurmu". The phrase is funnier in Russian, but it roughly translates to "Coffee or prison." The favorable reception of coffee in Russia was thus secured.

I never know what I'll learn when I ask questions here.

--Matt

Penultimate

(Matt)

We have just over a week left and I'm beginning now to process our experiences in broader terms than what I need to know to make it through the next week. Last evening, Makinzie and I had a discussion about the ways in which our time here has impacted our own life-decisions and the direction we want our lives to take in the future. We both agreed that living in Moscow is not so much different from living in any Western city, and yet I still believe that acclimating to life in Russian culture has made the most minute details of our "usual life" in America stand out in greater relief. The biggest question for me right now is how this defamiliarizing way of viewing our past will affect what we accept as "standard" for our lives in the future. I know I will be dwelling on this question for a long time in the weeks to come, and I would welcome thoughts from your own experiences.

I leave you with two words of wisdom from what I've learned in Russia:

• You can say to a person Вы хорошо выглядиш (Voi Horosho VOI-gliadish) but never Вы хорошо выгладиш (Voi Horosho voi-GLA-dish). The difference in pronunciation is subtle but crucial. The first phrase means "you look great today"; the second phrase, oh-so-easy to mispronounce, means "you iron clothes well today", and carries the implication that your addressee should consider doing your laundry for you.
• I was reading a Christmas Card in Russian today and translating some of the words I didn't know. Wanting to practice the phraseology, I told someone "мечты ваши заветные испoртяться скоро" ("Mechti vashi zovetniye ispolnayayutsa skora"). I had wanted to say "May your precious dreams soon come true." Ah, but the crucial Russian verb is испoлняться, which looks very similar to, but is not испoртяться. Anyway, what I had said was "May your precious dreams quickly come to ruin."

We goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo

This past Saturday morning I had the blessing of getting to hang out with some really cool kids, parents, and volunteers at a zoo here in Moscow. A group children with disabilities (similar to the students I have in my own classroom back in so cal) and people that care about these kids get together for outings in parks around Moscow to provide relief for the parents, promote social awareness, and to serve the kids.

Oh, how my soul was refreshed to be a part of this! I miss my students and the special light they reflect in others. I had great conversations with people about the status of services for these kids in Russia as well as practical ideas of how they might be better served to live life more independently. Over the course of these past few months here, I have also been blessed to have been able to dream with students and friends whose heart is with these children.

Father, it brings warmth to my spirit and a smile to my face to see people’s hopes to change the system. I earnestly ask your guidance and blessing in these friends’ lives along with the children they so beautifully strive to serve. May You be glorified in all that is done here to seek justice!

-Makinzie

Firsts

This weekend we had several firsts (at least firsts in a while). . .

We visited a house for the first time outside of the city of some friends my parents knew over 20 years ago.

I tried холва (halva) for the first time brought over by some students this past weekend. How could something made from the byproduct of sunflower oil and that has such a strange greyish-greenish color actually taste good?





We took our first car ride in 3 months going to the ouside of town, and we both felt queasy--really queasy; guess we'll have to take car riding slow when we get back.

I got to go to the zoo with some kids this weekend—first time I actually saw character people standing around talking with their heads off more—made me laugh.

-Makinzie

Reasons I am thankful for our community in Russia. . .

• new friends being willing to enter into our lives and allow us to be a part of theirs
• both the apartment manager and I waiting, smiling, waving, and talking as I enter/leave the building
• seeing people I know where I shouldn’t see them (in a city of millions); seeing people out on the street, in the metro, out walking—there’s something about that that fills my soul up with such a warmness
• being called out in truth by a friend
• walking with my husband
• seeing changes in friends and in myself that were not purposely sought out but are ultimately for good
• reading/studying His word together
• eating Russian meals in Russian homes
• having our home filled with those we love
• sharing in people's dreams

-Makinzie

Lily

Lily is a dear friend who entered the university when she was only 16 (“high school” finishes around 16 or 17). She is this incredible woman of peace and has this beautiful spirit that encourages anyone she is around. Lily has recently been struggling with confusions of where she should be doing His work. She is currently frustrated with the Russian system of how social work (her major) is honorably conducted here. I ask you to join me in praying for her; she is such a good and just woman. Father, I ask for you to bless Lily with boldness and encouragement in whatever choice she makes—thank you for this dear friend with such a pure desire to seek change in her motherland.

-Makinzie

The Box of Chocolates

(Matt) Events of last Friday, Nov. 25

“Don’t forget” Nelly Alexandrovna (my Russian teacher) told me as she handed me a plain white parcel that she had identified only as “heavy.” I put the box in my bag and told her, “OK, I won’t forget.” I really had no intention of forgetting the box (which was not really all that heavy), but I didn’t realize at the time how direly serious Nelly was in her command. She wasn’t requesting that I not forget, she was warning me in a subtle Russian way that to forget the box would be to open the floodgates of misery and horror for me, her, and a google of other Russians whose happiness and well-being apparently depended on the safe delivery of the white box that was now in my very possession.

I later found out that the box contained about twenty-five individually wrapped chocolate candies. I also later found out the meaning of the word “kashmar”—in Russian, “nightmare.”

We continued on our journey of the day, which was to the “roinok” or market, called “Izmailova,” a notable place for tourists to gather to be “trapped” and sellers to practice the English phrase “Come look; only 500 rubles.” For some reason, Izmailova is at least 20 degrees colder than any other place in the city of Moscow, and my hands would be red and freezing for at least six hours after we eventually left the market.

The first thing that Nelly said to Makinzie and I when we entered the threshold of the market was “don’t speak.” Apparently, our fluent and perfectly-accented Russian capabilities betray our real identities of “rich Americans.” I asked Nelly if we wouldn’t already be identified as foreigners anyway because I was wearing Bert’s blue and bright yellow Columbia jacket and Makinzie was wearing a bright white fleece coat and neon green mittens and stocking cap. Given that the normal Russian outfit is black everything, I was sure that we couldn’t have looked more foreign even if we were wearing our everyday Texan attire of spurs, boots, and oversized ten-gallon hats. But Nelly said our clothing was OK. Our eyes, however, were not OK. Don’t look interested or look around, she explained—look bored and tired.

So we donned the identity of the “typical” Russian customer, disinterested, aloof, apathetic. The change was immediate: suddenly we blended seamlessly into the crowd.

Except that none of the market sellers recognized our obvious Russianness. A woman came running up to us as we passed by her kiosk, babbling a stream of friendly English phrases. “Matryoshki dolls,” she said (these are the nesting dolls); “only fifty rubles! Please look!”

Nelly Alexandrovna bristled. She fired back at the woman a string of harsh sounding Russian phrases, asking her, “What do you think we are, foreigners? Why are you talking to us in English?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the seller, now speaking rapidly in Russian. “I thought you were Americans. The dolls are only 30 rubles.”

After Nelly gave the woman a brief lecture about the unfairness of spiking the prices for foreigners, she asked the seller, “what makes you think we’re Americans, any way.”

“Well, it’s your clothing,” the woman said. “You look like foreigners.”

“What, me?” Nelly shot back. “What are you saying?”

“No; the young man and the young lady; they’re wearing such bright clothing—they look like Americans.”

So much for our disguise.

The fun continued as we went from stall to stall. The sellers weren’t quite sure how to treat a group where one woman spoke English and the other two customers were apparently mute. They frequently asked Nelly, “do they [pointing to us like we were three-year-olds] speak Russian?” Usually, I would answer “Da” at the exact same moment that Nelly answered “n’yet.” We received more than one look that conveyed the idea that we must have been dragging Nelly along with us at gunpoint. Fortunately, no one was going to raise prices on Nelly, so her presence overrode our obvious failure to perform Rusianness in any competent way.

Well, having finished our experience of the day at the market, we headed back into the Metro station, where we had to part ways. I told Nelly that we were going to go to the university for the rest of the day because we had an event to attend at night. She said that she was going to the train station and then out of town. We exchanged good byes and separated.

The chocolates stayed with me.

At the halfway point on our hour-long journey to RACU, Makinzie and I decided that we would just head home instead of waiting at the university. It seemed like a good decision because we needed to rest and we had already prepared food to eat at home. Along the way, I looked into my bag and saw the chocolates. “Oh no!” I cried, turning to Makinzie. “What should we do?” Well, we considered backtracking the 30 minutes to the last place we had seen Nelly, but then our better judgment kicked in and we decided that she would have already left for the train. So we went home and rested for about three hours and then got out again and made the 1 ½ hour trip back to RACU for the evening’s events.

Imagine our surprise, then, when we arrived at the university and were greeted by about five students who announced, “Nelly Alexandrovna has been looking for you!” Yes; although we had last seen Nelly almost six hours previous, on the entirely opposite side of Moscow, she had taken a two-hour metro ride in the opposite direction from her intended destination in order to find us and obtain her chocolates. She had arrived at RACU almost four hours before us!

Nelly wasn’t very happy when she saw us. I gave her the chocolates and she said, “You told me that you wouldn’t forget!”

“I know,” I told her, “I’m very sorry!”

“You also told me that you were coming straight to RACU!” she exclaimed.

I didn't know how to make my voice more peninent. “I know! I’m sorry; we decided to go home and rest!” I exclaimed, with my best puppy eyes.

By now, a small crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle. I don’t know very many words for “I’m sorry” in Russian, but I used all of them in trying to apologize to Nelly.

After a few more minutes of clarification, Nelly left the university with her chocolates, apparently bound for another two-hour ride on the Metro and then a longer transfer on an electric train to the outer limits of Moscow.

On this Tuesday when I met with Nelly again for my lesson, I tried one more time to make amends for what must have been a disappointing weekend. After I expressed my apologies, I have to confess that I expected the typical American reciprocation, something to the effect of "No, don't worry about it; it was my fault as much as yours."

Instead, Nelly corrected my phrase. I had said, literally, "Please excuse me for what happened last Friday." What I should have said, apparently, was (again, literally translated) "I felt myself ashamed in front of you last Friday."

Так жизнь в Россие ("such is life in Russia")

--Matt